


and all the pieces fall (right into place)

by symbolicstains



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Autism, Autistic Jack Kline, Gen, Jack Needs a Hug, Post-Episode: s13e02 The Rising Son, Sam Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Season/Series 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 10:00:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25967764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symbolicstains/pseuds/symbolicstains
Summary: The answers come quickly enough, now that Sam is actually looking for them.Masking. Stimming. Texture aversion. Special interests. Sensory overload.The words glare up at him from his screen at half past midnight, lighting the dark library:Autism Spectrum Disorder.He can't let this go.
Relationships: Jack Kline & Sam Winchester
Comments: 10
Kudos: 131





	and all the pieces fall (right into place)

At first, Sam is amused. 

Jack mimics Dean's every action, every facial expression and nonchalant gesture, right down to details minuscule as the position of fingers pressed against glass bottles. He is calculated and careful. He adjusts his grip, adjusts the downturn of his lips, as if this is some important field of study - a test he must ace. 

Dean says, "Would you _stop?"_ Sam winces. Unquestioningly, Jack obeys. 

_He's three days old,_ Sam reminds himself, and he lets it go.

* * *

Jack paces. A lot.

It seems to be the only thing he does, in fact. Every time Sam goes to check on him, he's wearing down the floors of his new bedroom, of the library, of the kitchen, fingers dipped into the grooves of walls, palm ghosting over every surfacetop he passes.

Sometimes, he hums. Single tones, simple and clean. Sometimes, he rocks on his heels as he turns, takes the next few steps on the tips of his toes, then returns to a normal gait. Every time, Sam ignores the oddities. 

Almost every time.

This time, he asks, "Why are you doing that?"

Jack hums again. "It feels nice."

"The wall?" Sam watches as Jack traces delicate, nonsensical patterns into the bricks. 

"Yes." 

Sam holds a breath in his cheeks for a second, then releases it. "Okay."

_He's a week old,_ he reminds himself. This is new. Walls are new. Everything is new.

He lets it go.

* * *

"I don't like it."

Jack's mouth twists into a grimace of disgust as he reluctantly chews and swallows the offending bite of food. It takes every ounce of self-control Sam has left in his weary bones not to slam his head down on the table, concede defeat, and feed the Nephilim nothing but nougat and breaded chicken for the rest of his days.

"You don't seem to like anything," Sam says, fighting to keep the frustration from his voice. "What _will_ you eat?"

"Nougat."

"You can't eat nothing but candy, Jack. You're half human - your body needs real food. Why don't you like the orange?"

Jack pauses for a moment, as if he isn't quite sure why himself. Finally, he settles on, "It...feels gross."

"Tastes." In spite of himself, Sam can't help his short-lived smile. "I think you mean it tastes gross."

"No. It _feels_ gross."

"Alright." Sam runs a hand down his face. "Okay. That's fine. We'll...just keep trying, I guess."

_He's ten days old,_ Sam reminds himself, and lets it go.

* * *

Blessedly, Jack has expanded his horizons and grabbed hold of a primary interest that isn't pacing and feeling up the bunker walls.

Unfortunately, that interest just so happens to be watching all three original Star Wars films on repeat, all day, every day. 

"Do you want to...maybe watch something else?" Sam asks, sitting on the opposite end of the couch with his laptop, dread pooling in his gut as Jack restarts A New Hope for the second time that day. It's not even noon.

Jack doesn't respond for a long moment. His eyes are fixated on the screen, and Sam begins to think he hasn't been heard.

"No," Jack says finally. "I like this."

_He's just coping,_ Sam tells himself, even as something uneasy and unidentifiable rises in him when Jack begins to rock in place, subtle little movements, eyes locked unblinkingly onto the opening credits. _He's been through a lot. He's barely two weeks old._

And, even though something tells him he shouldn't, Sam lets it go.

* * *

A sudden crack of nearby thunder jolts Sam from his sleep. He rolls over, groans, and blinks up into the darkness.

Footsteps pad down the hallway. His door opens, and a sliver of light peeks in. Jack's voice greets him, hesitant and trembling: "Sam?"

Sam sits up immediately, feeling a twinge of guilt. He hadn't thought to explain to Jack the concept of a thunderstorm. Of course the noise would scare him.

"Hey," Sam says, and the door opens a little more. "You can come in."

Jack doesn't need to be told twice. He hurries inside and closes the door behind him as Sam switches on his bedside lamp.

The kid is - not in the state Sam expected.

He expected fear, concern, and confusion. Jack is all of those things times ten. His face is pale and stricken, knuckles white around the heavy comforter he'd wrapped over his shoulders and dragged down the hall, shoulders visibly shaking. He rocks on his heels, much the way he does when pacing. 

He looks terrified. 

"Jack?" Sam says slowly. "Hey - it's okay. I know it might sound scary, but it's just a little storm. Totally normal, alright? Happens all the time." 

Another wave of thunder rolls in. Jack flinches. "Sam. Make it stop."

"It's...Jack, it's just a little rain-"

"Make it stop. Make it _stop."_

"I can't make it..." Sam shakes his head, encloses his hand around one of Jack's wrists, and pulls him down to sit on the bed. "It's called a thunderstorm. I can't make it stop. It'll stop on its own."

Jack rocks aggressively, hands pressed against his ears and eyes shut tight. The comforter slips from his shoulders. "It's too loud. It's too _loud._ I can't think. Please make it stop."

_He's a month old,_ Sam thinks, but the that excuse is unstable and weak, built atop a cracked foundation. 

Sam grabs Jack by the shoulders, pulls him in, and _holds._

* * *

The answers come quickly enough, now that Sam is actually looking for them. 

Masking. Stimming. Texture aversion. Special interests. Sensory overload. 

The words glare up at him from his screen at half past midnight, lighting the dark library: _Autism Spectrum Disorder._

He can't let this go.


End file.
